


Shifting Realities

by AetherSeer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Animal Transformation, M/M, Oral Sex, Veterinary Clinic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21222851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Tom’s learned it’s better to be careful than optimistic. Especially when you work in wildlife rescue and rehab.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catznetsov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/gifts).

> Tom’s steed is a beat-up truck and his sword is usually in the shape of a pen or a syringe, but Evgeny certainly needed a rescue from a danger of his own creation. So, I hope you enjoy this rather ridiculous story. I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Any animal-handling in this story is entirely for plot purposes and should not be taken as advice. I do not work with animals of any sort, and am about as far from being an expert as one can be.

It’s the photo that really gets Tom’s attention when he flips through the paperwork for their newest intake. Fierce golden eyes stare back at him from above endless forms filled out in Nicky’s barely-legible chickenscratch.

Tom whistles under his breath. “You’re gonna be a bit more intense than your average chicken, huh,” he murmurs to the pages, running his eyes down the columns. “A lot more intense,” Tom says, eyebrows raising involuntarily. “Ouch.”

The angry screech that echoes through the clinic hallways seems to be in agreement. Tom sets the clipboard aside in favor of donning heavy leather gloves just as Nicky wheels in the tall metal cage.

Nicky cuts a glance at Tom and nods approvingly. “He’s still half-sedated, enough that we should be able to hold him still for the cast, but he’s pissed about being injured and even more about being here.”

“Right, yeah, makes sense,” Tom answers absently, angling to get a better look at the bedraggled pile of screeching feathers in the far corner of the cage. “So we’re gonna have to reset the wing and somehow convince him not to try and kill us in the process.”

Nicky just looks grimly determined. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll know better than to try and bite. But I’m going to need you to hold him while I set the wing.”

“Got it.”

The screeches pause when Tom flips the latch of the cage. Tom can see enough through the shadow to lock eyes with intelligent gold beneath dark feathers. “Hey,” he starts. The screeching doesn’t resume, and the eagle doesn’t try to immediately attack, so Tom hopes he’s listening to at least the tone of Tom’s voice. “I know it sucks right now, and you’re in pain, but we’re here to help. It’s our job to fix it. So you can fly again. We’re gonna make this as easy as possible for you, quick and painless, and then we can get you into a more comfortable place so you can heal.”

As he talks, Tom slowly opens the door wider, reaching in. The eagle shifts, those bright eyes watching Tom’s hands. “We gotta get you out on the table so Nicky can get a good look at your wing and get it back how it needs to be, okay? See if you can work with us here.”

Tom has no illusion that a wild animal can understand him, but talking seems to make the process go easier, and explaining his every move makes _ Tom _ feel more confident about what he’s doing, so … whatever works, right?

The eagle twitches when Tom gets a good hold on his neck, makes an aborted movement, and screeches again, probably in pain. “Easy, easy,” Tom coaxes. “I’m gonna grab your legs—please don’t try to disembowel my hands, I need those—and get you on the table. Quick and easy. It’s easier on all of us if you don’t fight me.”

Tom works a hand beneath what presumably is soft feathers, catching the eagle’s legs up close to its belly, enough where the back of Tom’s hand also serves to support the bird’s weight as he lifts. That gets him a tired, but indignant squawk. “Yeah, I know, I know.”

Nicky’s quick with the anesthesia now that the bird’s on the table and actually lying still enough for the wing to be looked at, which is a relief.

Tom stares at the now calm and sedated eagle as Nicky carefully moves the wing around, his fingers still carefully tucked away from that sharp beak. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bird like this,” Tom says.

He’s not lying. Tom’s seen bald eagles at the rescue before, and this one’s maybe a cousin, but the markings are completely different. The feathers are a mottling of dark brown and gold, with a handful of white patches on the wings and legs.

Nicky hums quietly. “The break’s not as bad as we feared, more of a dislocation than a serious break,” he says, and Tom leans in to watch what Nicky’s seeing. “See here? His flight feathers won’t be affected nearly as much, and he’s also still growing, so the bone should heal nicely as long as we make him rest it for a few weeks.”

“So he’s young then?”

Nicky nods, deftly putting together the brace. “Still a juvenile, based on the patches of white feathers. Those tend to moult away, get darker as they get older, with this particular bird—golden eagle—so he’s probably a few years old. Older range of the juvenile, given his coloring.”

The eagle lets out a short chirp, and then a series of hisses as Nicky manipulates his wing into the brace. Tom holds him still, petting softly over feathers he can’t feel through the gloves. “Almost done, bud. Almost done. Just let Nicky get some more measurements and we’ll get you to your recovery room.”

That gets him a chirrup and an attempted move on Tom’s fingers. Tom quickly gets those out of range. He’s been bitten before by upset patients, and that’s not an experience that needs repeating.

Soon enough, though, Tom’s escorting a woozy eagle back to one of the larger enclosures to rest and recover.

“Are you sure he won’t try to fly?” Tom asks. It’s a valid question, given the size of the enclosure, Tom thinks.

Nicky just shakes his head. “Not this one. He’s smarter than that. The brace will keep him from jostling the wing while it heals, too, so he’ll just have to suck it up and waddle from perch to perch for a while.”

Tom sets the eagle down in the middle-height nest, careful to release the bird’s legs first while exerting just enough pressure to hold him down. Three, two … and on one Tom lifts up and takes two quick steps back.

He didn’t have much to worry about, since the eagle is still drugged to the gills and manages just to get an unhappy hissing noise out before his head drops back down, but Tom’s learned it’s better to be careful than optimistic. Especially when you work in wildlife rescue and rehab.

Evgeny the eagle, as Nicky’s dubbed him—“He’s a golden eagle, what makes you think he’s Russian?” Tom protests, to no avail—is maybe the smartest bird Tom’s ever met, figuring out how to escape his enclosure exasperatingly quickly.

And one of the most affectionate, too, once he’s sobered up and determined that Tom is the source of both food and scritches. After three-too-many clawed encounters leave Tom’s shoulder bloody and scratched up, Tom rigs up a wrist-to-shoulderpad gauntlet that lets Evgeny climb to his favorite spot atop Tom’s shoulder, tall enough to watch all the clinic’s goings-on.

Nicky watches them warily, which is fair, given Evgeny _ had _ tried to take Tom’s fingers off the day they met, extenuating circumstances aside. But Tom privately thinks Evgeny must have been someone’s treasured falconry bird, because he doesn’t act anything at all like a wild bird.

No wild bird demands humans stroke his head and chest feathers, that’s for sure. He’s beyond clever, too, seeming to understand most of what Tom says and obeying orders to step onto nearby perches when Tom needs the use of his arms to work. And no wild bird would tolerate wearing jesses either, yet Evgeny seems to enjoy jangling them to entertain himself.

“You realize he could take part of your face off without trying very hard,” Nicky says more than asks as Tom’s pinning a very angry, very hissy cat to the examination table with double-folded blankets.

Tom locates the cat’s neck and gets a more secure hold, pressing the cat flat with his other hand. “Are you talking about Evgeny or the cat, because I’m pretty sure this lovely girl could also take my nose off if she wanted to. Which, yes,” Tom says affectionately to the yowling, hissing feline, “I know this isn’t fun. But it’s only once a year, and then you don’t have to see us again for 364 days.”

He gets a hiss and a subsiding angry grumble as the cat figures out Tom’s not going to let her go. Nicky, efficient as always, gets her blood drawn quickly and lets Tom wrap her back under the blankets for transport.

“Yes, Evgeny,” Nicky says, as Tom deposits the bundle of cat and blankets into the holding cage, latching it shut and attaching the “Angry Customer—Do Not Disturb” label to the wires. “He’s not tame, you know.”

Tom’s _ very _ aware of that, thank you very much. But Nicky’s a) Tom’s boss, and b) justifiably worried about Tom’s safety, so he’s not going to push back too hard on that. “I know he’s wild, Nick,” Tom says. “He’s not a pet. But … he trusts me, I think. At least enough that he won’t hurt me on purpose as long as he doesn’t get scared or surprised.”

Nicky still doesn’t look impressed, but that’s also his default expression, so Tom doesn’t feel like he needs to say much more. It’s a risk, yeah, to bond with a bird that’ll be released back to the wild as soon as he heals—and one capable of doing Tom serious injury—but it’s one Tom’s willing to take.

Evgeny chirrups a greeting when Tom makes it back to his enclosure for last rounds, waddling to press against the wire and offer his chest feathers for scritches. Tom obliges as much as the narrow gaps allow—which, when accounting for the size of Tom’s hands, isn’t much—and gets more trills.

“Hey, buddy,” Tom murmurs. “Nicky’s worried about how I treat you, you know. Thinks it’s dangerous. And he’s right, you are dangerous.”

Evgeny tilts his head to eye Tom, this particular perch giving him enough height to nearly be at Tom’s level. Which might be why he’s come to favor this one over the last few weeks, Tom realizes. _ Chirrup. _

“You are, and you know it,” Tom chides. Chiding an eagle, for words the eagle can’t even speak, what is Tom’s life? Evgeny takes a hopping step to the left and balances on one leg, claws extended. “Yeah, those are part of it,” Tom laughs quietly. “Pretty wicked talons there.”

Evgeny’s head swivels and he, well, he’s a bird, but he definitely _ preens, _ tucking his beak into his back feathers and nudging them around to sit properly. Tom fluffs Evgeny’s chest feathers, fingers sinking into soft down. “We’re gonna check you tomorrow, see how you’re healing,” he informs the eagle. Bright eyes focus back on Tom’s face. “Nicky thinks you should be ready to fly, as long as you’ve been good.”

Tom withdraws his fingers quickly, because _ that _ gets a hopping, head-bobbing chirrup, Evgeny’s good wing flapping in what must be excitement. Tom smiles. Evgeny’s smart; he must’ve picked up on something in Tom’s tone of voice. Or he saw a live mouse or something. Either way, it _ looks _ like he understood the words.

Hopefully that means a cooperative eagle in the morning.

Evgeny’s in fine form the next morning, actually, carefully walking his way up Tom’s proffered arm to his preferred spot on Tom’s shoulder when Tom’s gotten the clinic open. Nicky’s booked with small-animal patients clear through lunch, so Evgeny’s own examination will have to wait for an opening.

Evgeny doesn’t seem to mind the waiting. He likes people-watching from his perch behind the desk as Tom checks people in, jesses jangling softly as he shifts from foot to foot. (Nicky’d insisted on Evgeny wearing jesses before Tom was allowed to bring Evgeny out of the back, even if Evgeny is remarkably well-behaved.)

Evgeny’s quick to demand Tom’s attention the minute Tom’s hands are free, too, nudging his beak beneath Tom’s fingers until they rest atop soft feathers.

Which means Tom’s busy petting an eagle and filling out paperwork when Dmitry Orlov walks in with a very queasy-looking Bengal. Tom looks up when he hears Dmitry’s shocked inhalation, clocks the cat in his arms, and nudges Evgeny back to his perch.

“Mr. Orlov, ready for your appointment?”

Dmitry flicks a glance between Tom and Evgeny, and his lips purse, but the cat meows pathetically, and the disapproving look turns to one of concern. “He is eating, but feeling very bad for two days now,” Dmitry says. “Keeps throwing up, all over the house.”

Tom adds that information to Joy’s intake form and jots down the date and time. “Okay, we’ll take him into exam room No. 2, and I’ll get Dr. Backstrom in to take a look.”

He leads Dmitry and Joy to the exam room, still within eyesight of the front desk and keeps half his attention on Evgeny, who tucks his face into his shoulder feathers and ignores them. But Tom can’t exactly leave Evgeny alone up front while he gets Nicky, so once Dmitry’s settled, he extends his arm to see if Evgeny will climb up.

Evgeny gives him what looks like a baleful stare. “C’mon, we gotta get Nicky, and I can’t leave you out here on your own,” Tom coaxes.

Evgeny makes a noise Tom hasn’t heard him make before and jangles his jesses before acquiescing and carefully sidling up to Tom’s shoulder. As they pass the exam room, Evgeny lets out a little hiss, which he hasn’t done to any of the other patients today. “Hey, cut that out,” Tom says. “Dmitry’s a good customer, and his cat’s one of the better-behaved ones we get here.”

Joy doesn’t mind being handled, is what he means, and Tom’s never even gotten so much as a threatening claw flexed in his direction. Evgeny’s headfeathers fluff, but he only rustles his wings a little rather than mantling as they duck into the back.

“Nicky?” Tom calls. “Mr. Orlov and Joy are here for their 11 o’clock.”

There’s the brush of metal-on-metal, and Nicky emerges from the back just as Tom feels something pointed and smooth drag through his hair. They both freeze. Evgeny continues preening Tom, curved beak very, very close to Tom’s face.

“That’s new,” Nicky finally says, sharp eyes watching Evgeny rather than Tom.

“Yeah,” Tom agrees, still holding very, very still.

“It’s a bit inappropriate, isn’t it,” Nicky says, but he’s not talking to Tom, which—“Humans and eagles don’t share a body language, so he has no idea what that means.”

“He” is apparently Tom in this case, because Tom can feel when Evgeny shifts his weight and lifts his beak away from Tom’s hair. Tom could turn his head and look, but Nicky’s still talking.

“I think it’s time Evgeny went back to his enclosure for a bit,” Nicky says, still watching the eagle. “We need to help Dmitry and Joy right now. You don’t need the distraction.”

Okay, now things are _ really _ weird, but Tom also can’t argue with his boss about this, because Tom _ does _ have work to do and Evgeny _ is _ distracting.

Evgeny makes a sad chirrup when Tom opens the enclosure door and extends his arm, tilting his shoulder to make a straighter path for the eagle. But he does obediently shuffle down the guard to the perch. Tom would almost say he looks guilty, avoiding looking at Tom head-on.

“I’ll be back,” Tom finds himself promising. “We’re still going to look at your wing, and see if you’re ready to fly.”

Evgeny doesn’t answer. He’s also a bird, so Tom shouldn’t feel hurt when he doesn’t get his usual chirrup of agreement, but … he does. Tom still has a sick Bengal waiting on him, though, so he doesn’t linger long.

A miserable Joy leaves his breakfast all down the front of Tom’s shirt in the middle of his examination, which, while it’s far from the worst thing Tom’s gotten on him, is still unpleasant. Nicky sends him out to get changed, with orders to get a temporary kennel set up for their patient.

Problem is, once he’s stripped off his top, Tom can’t find his spare shirt anywhere. It’s not in his locker—actually his entire spare set of scrubs is missing—and it’s not in the laundry with the clean bedding and towels. Tom double-checks, patting between each set of folded linens just in case.

“I can’t find my spare scrubs,” Tom pre-empts Nicky’s question when he hears footsteps pause in the laundry room’s doorway.

When Nicky doesn’t say anything, Tom looks up—and blinks. Those are his scrubs, showing off far too much collarbone and hanging low on the stranger’s narrow hips. “Who are you, and how’d you get in here?” Tom asks, straightening to his full height. “This is an employee-only area.”

The stranger wets his lips, flicking a glance up and down Tom’s body. “I thought it was just me being smaller, but you really are that big, huh.”

“Sir, you have to leave. You can’t be back here.” Just what the guy’s doing back here, wearing Tom’s _ clothes, _ is something Tom doesn’t really want to think about. “If you won’t leave, I’m going to have to call the police.”

“Please don’t,” the stranger says. There’s an accent to his words that sounds close to how Dmitry talks. Maybe he’s Russian, which still doesn’t answer any of Tom’s questions.

Tom opens his mouth and the stranger tilts his head to watch. Tom’s breath catches on his next words, because there’s something almost familiar about that movement. The stranger shifts his weight, one arm moving more stiffly than the other when he crosses them over his chest. Tom shakes his head … and catches sight of the stranger’s feet. His _ bare _ feet.

That, coupled with “me being smaller” and the near-familiar body language, is building an impossible picture. But the stranger’s eyes haven’t left Tom’s face this entire time. And the intensity, although blue rather than gold, is too similar to be much else.

“Evgeny?”

The stranger’s lip curls upward into a smirk. “Zhenya, since we’re friends. Nicke warn me that you’re smart. But I like smart.”

“You were a bird,” Tom protests. “How—”

Evgeny takes two steps—light, hopping, _ dancing _ almost—further into the room. “Nicke say you don’t know we exist, one day when you’re not working. He tell me you think this is normal clinic, with maybe stranger animals than most. I think impossible, but you … you really don’t know.”

This close, Evgeny’s shaggy hair is almost reddish, curling at the nape of his neck in feathery wisps. Feathers, Tom thinks helplessly. Evgeny, who was an eagle, who is now a human, wearing Tom’s clothes, just a few steps out of Tom’s reach. “You stole my scrubs,” is what comes out of Tom’s mouth unbidden.

Evgeny—Zhenya—shrugs, the corner of his mouth quirking. The collar of Tom’s shirt slips to the side with the movement, baring even more pale skin. Tom stares.

“I can give back,” Zhenya offers, making as if to strip off the shirt, and Tom hurriedly waves at him to stop.

“No, no. Keep them. I think you need them,” Tom says quickly. “I’ll borrow Nicky’s spare. He won’t mind.” _ I hope, _ Tom finishes mentally. Then again, _ Nicky’s _ the one keeping secrets about their patients, so Tom temporarily appropriating Nicky’s spare scrubs is not exactly high on the priority list.

Tom half-turns away to rummage through Nicky’s locker. He’s just getting his head through the collar when he catches Zhenya shamelessly watching. Zhenya’s eyes scan up Tom’s torso before the eagle-shifter—were-eagle? Is there such a thing?—just gives Tom an approving smile as Tom hurriedly pulls the top all the way down.

“Tom? I thought I told you to get a kennel—oh.”

Nicky’s cradling a sorry-looking Joy, who hasn’t even managed to muster up a purr to accompany Nicky’s fingers gently carding through his short, soft fur. Tom looks between his boss and Zhenya, who’s decided to lean against one of the washing machines and raise his eyebrows.

Nicky sighs and Tom recognizes his cut-off motion to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You just had to jump ahead of schedule,” Nicky addresses Zhenya. “Another hour, and we would’ve let you go.”

“I was tired of the brace,” Zhenya retorts. “It itches. And I wanted to fly.”

Tom scrabbles for a chair, a dryer, a wall—anything to steady him. Because Nicky’s not denying—he’s actually _ confirming, _ rather—what Zhenya’s offered as an explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

Evgeny takes a breath to steady himself before he pulls open the clinic door, settling the bell jingling. Tom’s dark head is focused on the paperwork at the counter even as he says “We close in ten minutes. If it’s an emergency, please give me a few minutes and I’ll be right with you.”

It’s not an emergency, so Evgeny doesn’t say anything. He does wander around the waiting room, though, pausing at the wall of brochures to read their titles. He has to tilt his head to make out the smaller subtitle on the “What You Need to Know About Rabies” flier, and that’s when Tom must look up, because Evgeny can hear his quick intake of breath.

Evgeny chances a glance, and stills, because Tom is  _ watching _ him with enormous eyes, pen still held between long fingers. “You—”

“Me?” Evgeny can’t help but parrot, watching Tom struggle with what he wants to say and what he apparently cannot actually bring himself to ask.

“Nicky’s in the back, if you need to talk to him,” Tom finally says. “I have to close up.”

It’s not quite the invitation Evgeny wants, but it’s an invitation nonetheless.

Evgeny perches himself on the exam table in the back, stripped to the waist on Nicke’s instruction, obediently raising his left arm so Nicke can check his range of motion in this form.

“Any lasting pain or twinging?” Nicke asks. “Have you experienced any discomfort or difference in your shift?”

“No, shift is same as always. Sometime little ache after I fly a lot,” Evgeny admits.

“Mm,” Nicke says, fingers prodding at where the break would have been had Evgeny been human at the time. “That should fade as you use it more, strengthen the bone and muscle.”

Evgeny twitches away when Nicke presses his fingers too close to the delicate skin beneath his armpit, and Nicke lets him go immediately, hands lifting away to let Evgeny settle back into the touch. Nicke pauses, making sure, and then his fingers are firmer against Evgeny’s body, not so ticklish.

“I think we can settle up your bill,” Nicke finally says. “Not much else I need to do here.”

Evgeny’s pulled his shirt over his head and is working his hands through the armholes when Tom walks into the room and stops dead in his tracks. His tongue flicks out to moisten his lips, a habit Evgeny vaguely remembers from his time as an eagle.

It wasn’t remarkable then, just something the man did, but it makes Evgeny shiver now.

He yanks his shirt all the way over his head, hands fluttering at the hem. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; his hoodie’s still on the exam table.

Evgeny doesn’t miss the flicker of a glance down his body before Tom meets his eyes. He also doesn’t miss Nicke slipping out the side door that leads to the kennels, leaving the two of them alone.

Tom licks his lips again, throat working. “So,” he starts carefully, “Nicky did a little bit of explaining about some of our more … unusual clients.”

The fact that Tom hasn’t quit after finding out about who,  _ exactly, _ Nicke caters to is promising in Evgeny’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anything because Tom’s still talking.

“—he  _ also _ said that if I wanted any more details, I’d have to ask you yourself,” Tom finishes.

“Explain about … shift?” Evgeny asks.

“Yeah.”

“What you want to know?”

Now, Evgeny does reach for his hoodie. The exam room’s cold, and Tom’s searching gaze is making him feel exposed. He doesn’t get the cloth over his head, but he does manage to get his arms covered, the bulk of the fabric bunching in front of his chest.

“How much do you remember?” Tom asks.

Evgeny probably should have expected that to be the first question. “Not as much as I want, sometime,” he answers as honestly as he can. “I remember you. Big hands, gentle hands. Always calm when you talk to me. Don’t know what you say all the time, but also could be just English problem, too.”

Evgeny chances a glance at Tom’s hands then, and yeah, they’re just as big as he remembers. He suppresses a shiver and its accompanying thoughts. There’s another place and time for those.

Tom’s fingers twitch, an aborted little half-movement like he wants to bury them in Evgeny’s belly feathers. Again. Because Evgeny had definitely allowed and  _ encouraged _ those fingers to stroke every feather he could fluff up enough to be enticing.

“Did I—Are you—” Tom’s struggling for words now in a way that Evgeny’s decided is charming. “I didn’t mean offense in treating you like an animal,” is what he finally comes up with.

“I was an eagle,” Evgeny says slowly. He was a bird. An animal. Tom didn’t do anything—oh. “No. When I’m an eagle, I’m an eagle. I do eagle things. I remember I’m shifter, but … am an eagle.”

Tom doesn’t seem convinced.

“I eat raw meat when I’m eagle,” Evgeny explains. “I have bird stomach when I’m bird. Same diet would make me sick when I’m human. So, different needs.”

That seems to work, at least enough that Tom relaxes a little bit and takes a step forward. “Your wing—arm. We didn’t look at it last time. Before you, uh, left.”

“Is fine now. I can fly and everything,” Evgeny reassures him.

“You can—can you ... fly? Oh.”

Tom looks stunned, staring at Evgeny like he expects Evgeny to shift forms at any moment and take flight. Like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. Or … actually … a little like he had looked when Evgeny had helped himself to what he had thought was a set of Nicke’s scrubs until the pants had puddled at his feet.

Evgeny opens his mouth, pauses, and, well, fuck it, he might as well. “You want to see?”

The veterinary clinic opens onto a wide back lot of near-farmland, not unusual for a clinic that handles animals ranging on the larger end of the spectrum—and the occasional kelpie or large shifter.

It means they don’t have to go far for Evgeny to shift, though, which is honestly a bonus. Tom still seems convinced this is an elaborate prank.

Although, Evgeny does have to admit it would be quite a good prank if it were.

There’s a smaller patio area out back, just a table and two chairs and an unused ash tray. It’ll work to hold Evgeny’s things, though.

Tom makes a choking noise when Evgeny starts stripping off his layers, folding his sweatshirt neatly and setting it aside as he skins out of his t-shirt, jeans, socks and sneakers, leaving him in boxers, crucifix heavy around his neck. He carefully lifts that over his head, laying it atop the pile, before shedding his boxers and dropping them on top.

He doesn’t turn around to see Tom’s reaction.

Not yet.

Shifting is near-always a dizzying, exhilarating affair, Evgeny’s mass shrinking and his nerve endings singing as they’re stretched and reformed, bones hollowing out and feathers pushing forward in a wave of what can only be described as magic.

Evgeny hops forward, claws clicking against cement tiles. He turns his head, looks at Tom from profile.

Evgeny’s never been able to describe eagle-vision, the way colors shift and change and are so much _ more _ than what his human eyes can see. The way that Tom’s “glow” is different than Nicke’s calmer coloring, and the way that his browns and golds and peaches are just … overlaid and underlaid with other colors that Evgeny can’t see out of this form.

He watches as Tom gropes for one of the tiny, rickety chairs and drops into it, mouth still agape in probably-shock. The way Tom half-extends a hand, an aborted move as if to touch.

Evgeny chirrups, shuffling his feathers and settling more into his skin. He stretches up first one wing, then the other, shaking out his legs and flexing his claws. A quick headshake, and Evgeny’s eyeing the sky again.

_ Just a short flight, _ he promises, and does a short quickstep in preparation, extending his wings to make sure his feathers are all aligned properly.

The view from above really can’t be beaten, Evgeny knows. The wind whistles by as he coasts on the currents, sharp eyes always scanning the ground for the prey he  _ knows _ he doesn’t need to hunt but instincts tell him is there, waiting for him.

Also on the ground, waiting for him, is Tom, who’s managed to climb back to his feet and is following Evgeny’s flight path as best he can.

Evgeny wheels about, dropping into a dive—maybe adding a few flourishes because he  _ can, _ and it’s not like Tom really knows what a flight  _ should _ look like—and then flares out his wings just a meter above Tom’s outstretched, offered arm, letting him land softly on thick cotton.

Evgeny chirrups again, eyeing Tom. He’s vaguely aware that he’s being very eagle right now, adjusting his head to make sure he gets the best angle to watch Tom’s micro-expressions, but bird eyes aren’t exactly set to look head-on at humans from close up.

Evgeny fluffs his chest feathers invitingly.  _ Please? _

Evgeny shivers happily when Tom strokes down his chest with the backs of two of those long, talented, ridiculously gentle fingers. “I guess I should’ve known something was up when you let me do this the first time around,” Tom says softly.

Evgeny wishes that eagles could roll their eyes. Pet birds like being petted all the time. That’s why they’re called  _ pets. _ Evgeny’s not a pet, but he’s also not going to turn down free scritches just because  _ some _ shifters don’t like it.

Tom brings the arm Evgeny’s perched atop close enough to his chest to where Evgeny can shift his weight and just about lean his entire body against the breadth of Tom’s chest. Evgeny tucks his head beneath Tom’s chin as best he can, letting out contented eagle-chirrups as Tom fluffs and pets his feathers. He’d missed this.

In a while, he’ll have to shift back to human, and he’ll have to stumble his way through answering all of Tom’s questions, and probably also why his attempt to preen Tom had been so very forward, but for now, Evgeny’s more than happy to chirp and snuggle in and let Tom pet him.

And maybe, just maybe, when Tom’s done asking questions, Evgeny can ask one very important question of his own. About that ice cream shop on Main Street he’s been meaning to visit. Or a walk in the park. Or that brewery Tom had mentioned—the name wasn’t important to eagle-Evgeny, but he’s fairly sure Tom would be happy to jog his memory.

Evgeny hopes, at least. The looks Tom had given him earlier—both today and when he'd first transformed—were heated enough. Promising.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six dates, seventeen cups of coffee, and one explanation of how Zhenya had ended up on the doorstep of Nicky's clinic later ...

Tom’s as equally fascinated with Zhenya’s human skin as he is with stroking through his feathers in bird form. He could easily spend hours tracing Zhenya’s tattoos as Zhenya talks about his day, curled against each other in Tom’s bed.

Zhenya has little to no body hair, and just as little body shyness, stretching out over Tom’s sheets and wiggling down into the pillow with a happy sigh even as he tugs Tom up and over him like a living blanket.

Tom’s not about to deny him that, pressing soft, soft kisses to pale skin. Zhenya’s hands slide over Tom’s skin, still slick with sweat from the last few minutes he’d spent gasping into Zhenya’s mouth before finishing over Zhenya’s belly. Zhenya hums, pinching at the softness around Tom’s ribs.

“Hey, ow,” Tom reminds him, lifting his eyes to watch Zhenya’s face.

Zhenya mock-frowns back at Tom, before wiggling a hand between them to where Tom’s cock is once again taking an interest in the proceedings. “Think you like it,” Zhenya says with a sly smile.

“Uh huh,” Tom says, raising an eyebrow as much as he can. He presses another kiss to Zhenya’s collarbone and pushes up, balanced on his hands and knees as he works his way back down Zhenya’s body, dropping more kisses to Zhenya’s chest and the dip of his hipbone.

Zhenya props himself up on his elbows as Tom settles between Zhenya’s legs, nudging them wider to make room for himself. “Oh!” Zhenya says.

Zhenya’s cock is still soft, lying flaccid against his thigh. Tom runs his fingers over it and around, just relearning the shape and heft of it. The muscles in Zhenya’s thigh twitch when Tom leans his cheek against them, but make for an excellent pillow.

“You gonna—nng,” Zhenya asks, his head dropping back as Tom laps at the head of his cock, big gentle fingers rolling back his foreskin. “Okay, you gonna.”

Tom grins and readjusts, leaning in to fit more of Zhenya in his mouth. There’s a salt-bitterness, but it’s still mostly soft, warm skin. Tom traces his fingers around the base and down to cup Zhenya’s balls, gently stroking over the vulnerable skin.

Zhenya shivers, thighs trying to close but held open by the breadth of Tom’s shoulders. “Not a teenager anymore,” he says, twisting the fingers of one hand into Tom’s hair, but not trying to pull him off or away. “S’gonna take a while.”

Tom glances up and shrugs as much as he can around his mouthful. _ He’s _ not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Here, in Tom’s bed, they have all the time in the world. And Tom’s got plans, starting with getting Zhenya off for the second time in as many hours.

Zhenya seems to be on board, cock plumping up in Tom’s mouth and his fingers tightening in Tom’s hair. “Oh,” he gasps when Tom hollows his cheeks and sucks, glancing up through his eyelashes.

Tom can’t hold his gaze for long, but he memorizes the brightness of Zhenya’s wide blue eyes where they fixate on Tom between his legs, the rising color in his cheeks, his stuttering breaths, and the tensing of his abdomen. 

Zhenya inhales sharply, letting out a groan.

Tom bobs his head, doing his best to match the pace of his hand to the movement of his mouth, his shoulders safely trapped between Zhenya’s thighs. He shuts his eyes, concentrates on making sure he’s following every silent instruction Zhenya’s body is giving him, from the twitching of his hips to the tugging of Tom’s hair to the breathy “ah-ah” he lets out when Tom does that one trick with his tongue.

Tom loses time. It doesn’t seem like long before Zhenya’s knees come up and dig in against Tom’s biceps, and his noises get louder, salty fluid spurting over Tom’s tongue. Tom swallows and gentles his mouth, laving at Zhenya’s spent cock as Zhenya shudders and quakes above him.

When Tom looks up, Zhenya’s thrown an arm over his eyes, head tipped back into the pillows. Tom follows Zhenya’s gentle tug on his hair, settling his weight back over Zhenya’s side, nestling his own cock against Zhenya’s belly, still messy from earlier.

It’d be easy to rub himself off like this, Tom thinks, even as Zhenya coaxes him down into another kiss, apparently uncaring of where Tom’s mouth has just been. He rocks his hips, mindful to keep his full weight off Zhenya.

Zhenya reaches down and wraps those long fingers that Tom has definitely _ not _ fantasized about around Tom’s cock. Tom breaks the kiss and buries his face in Zhenya’s neck, panting. Between Zhenya’s firm, slick grip and the taste of Zhenya’s come on Tom’s tongue, he really isn’t gonna last long.

And he doesn’t, his release streaking up Zhenya’s hip to just below his ribs, spurting over his fingers before Zhenya wrinkles his nose and wipes his hands on the already messed sheets. Tom huffs a laugh into Zhenya’s collarbone and slides to the side, rolling to his back in a mirror of their positions before.

Zhenya rolls to his side and hitches up, staring at Tom with way-too-intense eyes for someone who’s just had two (rather nice, in Tom’s opinion) orgasms.

“What?” Tom asks, after a minute of Zhenya just staring.

“I’m glad you the one to find me,” is Zhenya’s simple reply, head still cocked in a way that has Tom remembering that he’s dealing with a shifter, and a predator at that.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” Zhenya wipes most of the mess off his skin with the top sheet, kicking it off the bed and curling into Tom’s side, head on Tom’s chest. “Yes.”

“I’m glad I found you, too,” Tom says. “But let’s not make a habit out of fighting bobcats and losing.” 

Zhenya nips him in response, which Tom supposes is only fair.


End file.
